The United States of Biohazard
by Shaderem X
Summary: An insane President. His alcoholic, divorcee guardian who saved his daughter. Rich men paying to play as zombies. Flaming pelicans. Chainsaw-wielding children. Skill serums. Declassified fighter jets. A floating Capitol building. A civil revolution. Welcome to the United States of Biohazard.
1. A Beer Cut in Three

"What do you think?"

"About what?"

"About all of it."

"Oh. Well, Ingrid… I think it's a joke."

Leon placed the sweating glass on the table. The coaster sat right beside it, Ingrid's eyes glued on it as the glass dripped into a god-awful ring on the table.

"It's not a bad idea, Leon," she said, reaching across the table and placing his water on the coaster. "And you, for one, are too broke to think it is."

Leon chuckled. He closed his eyes and shifted his body, as if to cure her jab with an air of superiority.

"Did I mention it's suicide too?" Leon lifted the glass to his lips and took a hearty gulp, before setting it back onto the wooden table beside the coaster. "I'm not broke _enough_."

Ingrid leaned into her chair, a smirk of cheeky disbelief to distract from her eyes searching the table for more reasons to appeal to him.

"How's Ashley?"

"Don't know," said Leon, wiping his forehead.

"You don't know how she is?"

"Why would I? We don't talk."

"I just figured it would be customary for people to want to talk to the person who saved their life."

"It is," said Leon, raising his eyebrows with a sharp stare. "She tries to talk to me, that doesn't mean I have to try back."

Ingrid pursed her lips. There was a knowing in her eyes, and Leon sure noticed it. He took a deep sigh and an unfocused roll of the eyes, before slumping into his chair. His stare was glued to the glass of water.

"It's my job to be emotionless. I used to think I was better than that. I thought I was a natural, because I was," said Leon, wiping a finger in a stray creek of water edging toward the side of the table. "But I guess I thought… I thought a natural meant being exempt from everything else the average people had to go through, yada yada yada."

Another sigh. Ingrid's eyes shot lasers through him.

"It didn't," he said. "It did for awhile, but it wasn't real, it was… it was that wild, young delusion that goes with not knowing much about the world."

"When did that change?"

"When I came home." He brought his finger back and rubbed it with his middle finger. "I sat down at home, and I thought, 'Shit. I'm still here. What the fuck does that mean?' And… well, I just… disconnected."

His eyes softened, as well as his body. He shifted for a moment, and then seemed to freeze as he looked down and to the left.

"It seems like so long ago, and yet it wasn't. Like, was it a movie? Or a game? It sure as shit couldn't have been real life, because—" Leon extended his arms, showcasing the room they sat in. "This is real life. This is nothing like what we went through. I mean, did we get sucked into another dimension and then got away? Or is it worse?"

"Worse how?" asked Ingrid.

Leon looked up at her.

"Or was it exactly real life, just some distance away?"

A muffled explosion shook the room. Dust fell from the ceiling, with Leon and Ingrid apathetically looking up.

"How long do you think we have?" Ingrid asked.

"Not long," said Leon, standing up from his seat and grasping his glass for a last sip of water. He raised it to his lips, but paused before his drink. "You ready?"

Ingrid exhaustedly laughed and shrugged. "Do I have time for a nap?"

Leon smiled, closed his eyes, and took a sip of his water. He separated his lips from the glass, but kept it close, as if not wanting to disturb the scene out of the savoring of the gulp. With a chuckle, he opened his eyes and set the water on the table.

"Well, that can't be good," said Ingrid. Leon looked at her as she gave a wistful point to the glass. The water within it was vibrating, quickly becoming a miniature splashing puddle.

"Well," said Leon with a forced, lackadaisical tone, "I guess it found us."

Stepping away from the table, he reached into his holster and removed his service weapon. A small holster beside his torso held a silencer, which he slid out with the push of a small safety lever and began twisting it onto the muzzle.

"They're going to be pushing toward us from the north doors. I imagine there will be a few, but the cavalry will be waiting behind so they can bottleneck us before we make it to the terminal," said Leon, pulling back the slide just slightly to check the chamber. He released it with a small mechanical clank, and looked at Ingrid. "We just gotta beat 'em."

Ingrid stood up with a tired smile.

"You make it sound so easy." She reached into a duffle bag beside her and removed a chainsaw. "You wouldn't happen to have any beer left in your bag, would you?"

"Yes and no," said Leon, replacing the gun into its holster and removing his knife. He pressed a button just beside the handle, observing as the blade slowly glowed red, and then pressing the button again.

He picked up the glass of water from the table.

"I had two left," he said, pouring the remaining water on the blade as steam sizzled off of it, before placing it back into its breast sheath. "But I dropped the bag off the ferris wheel."

"Damn it," said Ingrid, throwing the duffle bag over her shoulder by its strap. "I remember that. God, I could use one right now."

"Yeah. Me too."

Leon placed the empty glass back on the table to rattle once again, and reached beneath the table and removed a combat shotgun with a nail-ridden tin can duct-taped to the side of it. He looked at Ingrid once again.

"I think—" a mechanical voice said from the corner of the room. A small mechanical cube rolled on carbine wheels into the light, with a small camera perched atop it. "You'll be needing this."

A small tray in the machine clunkily propped open, revealing a key with a donkey on it. Ingrid reached in and removed it, tossing it to Leon.

"I think we will, Simon" she said.

Leon smiled wearily, placing the key into his pocket.

"Alright," he said. Leon turned around toward the door, the shotgun in a ready position, as Ingrid and Simon lined up beside him. "Let's blow their socks off."

Leon started his way toward the door, Ingrid following close behind, clutching the chainsaw.

"Wait, wait, wait," Simon shouted, his metal cube casing shaking urgently.

Leon and Ingrid turned around to look at the tiny machine. A bigger tray on the opposite side of his casing opened to reveal a single bottle of beer, secured by straps.

"We can share," said Simon sheepishly.

Leon scoffed.

"After," he said. He looked at Ingrid. "We'll cut it in three."

Leon turned around once again toward the door, clutching the shotgun with the stock pressed to his right shoulder.

"Ah, shit. Ah, shit. Ah, shit. Okay," said Simon. He shook himself off. "Let's blow their socks off, then."

A moment to listen. Leon turned his head for his ear to be closer to the door. His head flinched, as if he heard something. He turned his eyes back to the door and smirked. His eyes closed as his smirk turned into pursed lips.

With one fluid movement, Leon opened his eyes and placed his hand on the door, bolting through it.

...

 **Four weeks earlier...**


	2. Walk on the Beach

Night time in a city that barely sleeps. It is kept awake by the sound of the beach, a gentle touch of the tide as it leads out to a nearly pitch black ocean. Tonight, a soft reflection gives the horizon its shape; it is a scene right out of an anime, or a well-animated video game.

A soft, rhythmic moan approached. The town is full of alleyways, like deltas in a favela. Each alley is lit with soft, lamp-lit hues of orange; it is a homey, cozy sight. In the dark end of the alley, a stagger plopped against the puddles still drying from the rain the night before. A labored breath every few seconds, with pauses between each cluster of moans lasting anywhere between thirty to forty seconds. Breath was not a necessity.

It staggered into the lamp-light. Its clothes were tattered and stained, weeks (or even months) of wear and tear with no relief. It stumbled and stammered with almost poetic imprecision, like a drunk man on a bender. Drips from its torso spattered about on the pavement, and the smell probably carried on for a block or so.

A gunshot.

It rattled through the night. The many doors of the alley opened, revealing residents peering out into view with a familiar tone: "Looks like they found another one."

Sure enough, a small gang of friendly-looking locals were gathered outside of one of the alley doorways. A warrior-looking man of average, unexceptional build stood with a shotgun that fumed from the muzzle, his breathing labored and excited. He stood over a decayed corpse, freshly put down.

"Got another one," he said. "Third one this week. Put that up on the pool."

He looked back at his buddies, who were almost enthusiastic; surely, they were just happy to be alive, but they had the slight desensitization that goes along with doing this one too many times a week.

Another soft, rhythmic moan. Another spatter of drips on the pavement. The sound of doors quickly closing passed along down the alleyway. The boys heard it, and pivoted their heads in its direction.

A rotting man stepped into the light and into their view. He limped into perfect view, his flesh long-decayed from months of being—simply—dead. Emaciated, borderline skeletal, its fleshless jaw seemed to grimace as it stopped limping and stood with a misshapen posture. It looked at the boys.

They stood there, the young man with his shotgun and bravado. Their faces dropped. The doors of the residents closed quietly, not wanting to attract attention.

In the light of their doorway, they could see on the corpse a red band around its left arm. The corpse gave a small nod, either from cheekiness or simple a neck spasm. The boys saw the red band around its arm, and looked into its eyes. Pale, foggy, and sunken-in; those eyes weren't long for their place in its skull.

"Let's—" said one of the boys, choking on a nervous swallow before finishing his sentence. "Let's get inside, guys."

They cowered into the doorway, with the shotgun-wielding hooligan taking one last defiant, but fearful look at the thing. The walking corpse seemed to wink, but he couldn't be sure.

"Come on, man! Seriously."

An arm pulled the boy into the lit doorway, slamming the door behind him with the lock of the bolt.

It continued down the alley. The end of the alley seemed like a paradise; it faced out to the beach, toward that picture-perfect, moonlit shore. It looked a little like a paradise, but a little worse for the wear. Still, it was a sight for the nostalgic straggler.

It staggered, its needless breath becoming more laborious. One might get the impression that its breath was not out of necessity, but out of anticipation. And indeed it was, as it found exactly what it was looking for tonight.

A small figure stumbled about, nothing but a silhouette amidst the dim, blue light of the moonlit beach. She was skinny, and barely clothed; anyone could see that figure, even in a pitch black room. A barren, skeletal, deformed figure. Perfect.

The corpse stumbled toward the figure, moaning almost melodically. Its feet went from the thuds of the concrete catwalk to the soft pats of beach sand. The tide softly hitting the shore was peaceful, even godlike. On a better night, perhaps someone's best memories could be conjured like a piece of poetry. Tonight, it was a backdrop to something else.

It stumbled toward the female figure, still just a silhouette before a beautiful, scenic, dark blue backdrop. As it picked up its pace, its moans and breath more methodical, its left arm began to loosen from its socket. A tooth fell from its mouth in the excitement.

The female silhouette turned around violently, not out of surprise, but from the force of moving her body with such little muscle mass. In as close a distance, the moonlight revealed her; a pale, freshly-turned woman, teeth-marks on her neck only slightly scabbed. Her eyes were comical; only the cheesiest of horror aficionados could have designed those sunken-in monstrosities.

The corpse was now almost at a lumber toward her, picking up the pace to a soft, stumbling run. She noticed his approach, yet did nothing; he MUST be a friend. He smells like she does, after all.

He tackled her to the sand. His face meshed with her neck, and her legs straightened with the shock of it all. She let out a howl, seemingly with two voices exploding from her larynx. Her legs began to shake violently as the corpse forced its body on her to pin her down. Its head shook violently, shaking hers along with it. He tore back from her neck, the dim light obscuring any sight of it. It buried its head into her neck once again, tearing back once more. Bury. Tear back. Bury. Tear back.

She couldn't move. She had no hope of moving.

After several minutes, she was still.

It sat up, kneeling over her in a mounted position. It chomped its jaw with satisfied grunts, articulating its pleasure; a meal well-earned.

"Yoooohhhh."

—-

The cord unplugged. The Senator shot up from his seat.

"Oh my fucking Jesus," he gasped, sweat drenched into his fine-pressed suit. A Presidential pin was tacked onto his lapel.

He sat there, sweating and satisfied. He disconnected the last of the plugs from his arm, as the computer monitors in front of him cut out.

"Alright, Mr. Houser," said a voice over the intercom. "Your session's up. Good hunt."

He sat there, sweating and panting, a smile on his face. His eyes, furrowed with an angry pleasure, were aimed at his well-polished shoes. He clenched his fists, and the veins from his collar bone to his throat bulged out with ecstasy.

"YEEESSSSSSS!" he screamed, shaking his fists violently and spraying spit onto his chest. "YESSS! YES! YES, YES, YES, YESSSSSSSSSS!"

—-

 **One day later, in Leon S. Kennedy's mansion...**


	3. All the President's Fugees

SCHLINK!

The bulletin board vibrated with the impact. A wide target was crudely painted on it, pockmarked with tiny craters. Four knives sat embedded in the cork; none of them were close to a bullseye.

SCHLINK!

Another knife darted into the board, this time slightly closer to its dead-on target.

"Damn it."

SCHLINK!

Another knife, not even within the diameter of the target.

Leon groaned with annoyance. Beside him, a wicker basket was perched on a small table next to his massive couch, where he sat slouched with a seemingly careless posture. He reached into the basket, a metallic sea of clanks and scratches of wicker, and pulled out another knife.

"You're my lucky one," he said to the knife, looking at it lovingly. "I can feel it. Come on. Don't let me down."

He charged his arm back, and with a moment to close his eyes and let out a steady breath, he launched the knife at the cork board.

"Ehhhh," he groaned again. "Can't win 'em all."

He reached beside the wicker basket and raised a glass of scotch to his lips, toasting it to the cork board before taking a sip.

"Leon!" The sound of hasty steps echoed down the hall. A woman, half-dressed, appeared in the doorway beside the ornate door, leaning against the frame with her arms crossed upon seeing him. "Wow. You look ready."

"What?" Leon said incredulously, raising his arms in a half-shrug. "I thought I was ready."

"And who's driving?" the woman asked, nodding her head toward the glass of scotch.

"I thought we were going to pile up on your bicycle and bike there together," said Leon, taking another sip of his scotch. The woman rolled her eyes and beamed out of the room. "What?! I thought it'd be romantic! Vanessa!"

Leon let out a sigh of upbeat frustration as he lugged himself off the couch. He took a look at the cork board with miserably-aimed knives sticking out of it.

"Don't give me that look," he said to it, before picking up his scotch and walking through the door. "Honey! Come on, it would be fun at least! I can stand on the spokes!"

His voice echoed through the halls.

—-

The car stopped just outside the gates. Several guards with MP5's stood at the entrance, one in the booth just on the left side. The light rain dropped onto its windows; a very gloomy day.

"Out of the vehicle," commanded one of the guards, the one outside the booth.

Leon stepped out of the driver's side door, Vanessa appearing outside of the passenger's side. He flashed his identification, at which point the guard peered over to the other, giving him a signal. The gate opened slowly.

"Which lot would you like it parked in?" asked the guard.

"North side," Leon replied.

"Duryean?"

"Yes, the Duryean lot."

The guard nodded. "Go ahead. Slight enclosure just beside the entrance to the House. Walk slowly when approaching the steps."

"We know the dance, rookie," said Vanessa.

The guard stepped aside and into their car as Leon and Vanessa passed through the gate.

"Kind of cliched, don't you think?" Leon asked.

"What is?"

"'We know the dance, rookie.' Sounds like you're gunning for a cop drama," said Leon, lighting a cigarette as they walked.

Vanessa said nothing. She simply diverted from their path, toward a building just to their right.

"I'll see you after work," said Vanessa. "Rookie."

She climbed up the steps, just past several guards dotted along her route. Leon watched her walk up the steps. The way her ass danced as she walked, especially up the steps, always gave him pause. It was, after all, her most compelling personality trait. It certainly wasn't her humor.

Leon continued past the building toward a busier section of the complex. Checkpoints segmented each road, with guards herding several men and women in ragged clothes onto busses. Many a "MOVE!" and many a "KEEP WALKING!"

The guards sported red bands tied around their left arms. Presidential pins lined each uniform, some pinned on the vests, some pinned on the collars.

Leon walked by one of the busses, the guards abusing the men and women lining up for the trip.

"Why are you drooling?" asked one of the guards to an elderly woman, whose head craned down in a submissive stagger. "Why are you drooling? Can you tell me why? Are you nervous? Do you drool when you're nervous?"

The guard struck the woman in her lower back with the butt of his rifle, just hard enough to elicit a groan from her.

"100 fucking years old and you drool like an infant. Get in there!"

He shoved her into the bus, causing her to trip over the stems. A tall gentleman helped her up, and they disappeared into the grayness of the interior. Leon gazed at the guard, who returned his look.

"Good morning, Mr. Kennedy," he said, standing up straight like a toy soldier.

Leon grimaced. He looked the guard up and down, as if pondering the whole of him. Leon nodded at the guard, before looking up at the massive white building just past the bus; his destination.

Comical. The building seemed like something out of a graphic novel (Leon had taken up the habit of reading them in the past few months). How did the world get this way? A bureaucracy becoming so cartoonish that they no longer attempt to hide their villainy. No matter. It certainly made it easier to think clearly and decide right from wrong when the good guys looked good and the bad guys looked bad.

Or perhaps it should have.

Leon, as if just remembering, reached into his back pocket. He removed a small item and adjusted it onto his breast pocket. A Presidential pin.

An exploding wave of jets ignited above. The decrepit drones lining into the busses all flinched and looked into the sky, but Leon and the guards stayed perfectly still and carried on. Leon began trudging up the train of steps leading into the building. The guards on each side, patterned onto each 12th step on each far side, all stood up straight as he passed by them, despite being over 15 feet away on each end.

—-

Leon opened the door. The oval-shaped room bounced the light around beautifully, casting the white off the walls in a picture-perfect hue.

A tall man in a suit sat behind his desk. In the corner of the room sat a pregnant woman in a wheelchair, a blank stare on her face as she gazed into the fabrics of reality, or perhaps the frays in the rug.

"Good to see you, boy," said the man, facing the opposite way toward the window. "A bit early today. Take a seat."

Leon closed the door behind him.

"How many this week?" asked the man.

"Fourteen."

"Well done!" said the man, suddenly swiveling around in his chair and clapping. His face was well-wrinkled, like an oak tree. He was handsome, in an American kind of way. "That ought to raise profits."

Leon approached the man's desk, reaching into his wallet and removing fourteen photographs. He splayed them out in front of the man.

Women. Children. Men.

"They seemed fit," said Leon. "Not the best batch, but…" He trailed off.

"But," said the man, "they're a batch. And now they won't be turning. That's a good week."

Leon tensely smiled.

"Yes, it was," he said, the man smiling at him. "I'll keep you briefed on the Cheese Man."

"Still haven't got him," said the man with a chuckle. "The Cheese Man. He's smart, isn't he?

"Yes, he is, sir."

"You got his files?" asked the man.

"I do, yes."

The man smiled wider. "Well, I guess then you should get to it."

Leon nodded. "Yes, Mr. President." He turned around toward the door, placing his hand on the knob.

"Hey, Leon," said Mr. President.

Leon paused. He turned back to him.

"Really good job this week. You'll be heading into the field tonight. Farmhouse, west of the… west of the bayou."

"Good," said Leon, nodding once again before looking off into space. "I'll prep the gun."

He turned around once again, twisting the knob and opening the door.

"Leon," said Mr. President.

Leon closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. He turned around once again.

"Please stop fucking the whore. She's good at her job."

"Yes, Mr. President," said Leon.

"What did I say about lying?"

"I understand, sir," said Leon. "It's done."

Mr. President smiled tightly, nodding slowly, lost in thought. "Good," he said. "Good."

Leon smiled in kind. He glanced over at the pregnant woman, still staring off into the ether. He turned around once again and headed out the door, closing it behind him.

—-

 **In briefing, six hours before mission...**


	4. Wait for It—

"No fucking way."

"Way."

"No. I don't believe it. I simply don't believe it."

"Right in his eye," said Leon.

"How do you aim a rocket launcher at somebody's eye? How would you even know it got him in the eye?"

"Well, his eye was in his mouth, so it was hard to miss."

"Oh, you're fucking high, man," said Chris, his fist to his mouth in disbelief.

"And guess who tossed it to me," said Leon.

"What?"

"Guess who tossed it to me."

"I know, tossed what?"

"The rocket launcher."

"Oh. Who?"

Leon picked up his drink, putting it to his lips.

"Ada."

Leon took a swig of his whiskey.

"Ada!?"

Leon swallowed, clenching his jaw. "Fucking Ada."

"No fucking way."

"Way."

Leon put the glass onto the tabletop.

"And not only that," said Leon, before compulsively picking up the glass again. "She blew up the goddamn island right after it."

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Chris pounded the table and then leaned back into his chair. "I just can't believe it. It's legend stuff, I just can't believe it."

"Well, I hear you've punched a boulder until it did your bidding. You punched a boulder into submission, huh," said Leon with a chuckle.

"No, that one's made up."

The door swung open. Leon and Chris looked over to see HUNK standing in the doorway.

"Good to see you ladies again," said HUNK through his mask, sauntering into the room.

"Uh oh," said Chris, smiling over at Leon.

"Look who it is. Daft Punk finally arrived," said Leon with a smirk.

"We leave at 02:00," said Hunk, unpacking a duffel bag on the table near the far wall. He carefully placed a stock-armed TMP onto the table, before lining frag grenades neatly beside it. "I suggest you lay off the booze. This one requires precision. Not that you two ever quite cared about precision."

"I care about taking in some fresh air," said Chris, motioning over his face. "Doesn't that mask ever get musky in there? Seriously, this dank basement's got plenty of fresh smells in it. You should take a load off."

"Take a load off?" HUNK turned from the table to look at the two. "Taking a load off is out of the question forty-eight hours before the mission. A clear head is a clear take, and a clear take is the difference between living and dying. I'd recommend that with everything in life."

"Jesus, Socrates," said Chris.

"And some of us have a clean take with some whiskey in the system," said Leon, taking another swig.

"And some of us rationalize until it kills us," said HUNK, turning back to the table and removing a Glock 22 from the bag, placing it beside the grenades. "Have you read the Stoics?"

"Read the what?" Chris asked.

"The Stoics." HUNK removed a knife from the bag, placing it beside the TMP to the left. "Marcus Aurelius. Seneca. They speak about the virtues of loving your fate." HUNK removed four magazines for the Glock, placing them beside it. "Instead of drinking, you should consider the Stoics. It would help you stay alive."

Leon scoffed, placing the whiskey onto the table.

"And there you have it folks," said Chris. "HUNK is ready to go."

The door once again swung open. Four other men entered the room; a stocky man with a yarmulke, a bulky black man with one white eye, and a small sardine of a man with no distinguishable features. They surrounded the table and took their seats.

"Evening," said the stocky man.

Behind them came the Colonel, closing the door behind him.

"Well, isn't this the Avengers if ever I saw them," said the Colonel. "Put the whiskey away, you fucking bums. You two are fucking cartoon characters."

Leon took his glass, the bottle of whiskey, and Chris's glass toward the table HUNK stood beside. He placed them by his TMP.

"The plane is here," said the Colonel. "Stay sharp. You two, take a fucking shower. The rest of you, do your deeds, get a bite to eat, and I'll meet you out here in 30."

—

 **Before Hell breaks loose...**


	5. Oh, My God

The helicopter was now 38 miles from the farm. Labored breaths humidified the interior, breaths of men who were hot from their layered gear and armor. The sound of metal clanked from within, the men rustling about and readying themselves, both physically and emotionally.

Chris knew these were never good times. The readying of a fight was never something he enjoyed. Sure, the fighting was good, but the moments before were human. No one wants to take lives. No one wants to kill. Unless you're a psychopath, as Chris thought. He fancied himself not a psychopath, so moments like this were never easy.

HUNK showed nothing. He sat there, almost still as a stone despite the tremors of the helicopter. His mask reflected the interior red light, as if he has the eyes of a demon. The rest of his mask, however, reflected a cool and calm demeanor. The look was off putting to Chris.

Leon was a bit harder to read. He didn't have his gun out, but his hands behaved as if he did; cold and rigid, calculated, as if they had an aim to them as he fiddled with them in his lap. He looked straightforward, sweat beading off his face and his eyes fixated on one or two things over the course of several minutes. Of course, he was still on the tail end of a wild drunk, but his concentration was always good at the twilight of a bender.

The other men in the helicopter were not so interesting. They behaved like hard men, mercenaries for hire, and moved like such characters from a B-movie. From the inside, one might expect they were only pretenders, but make no mistake; these men, however stereotypical, were men who could kill before you could notice.

"90 seconds," said the pilot.

Leon perked up, but only slightly, glancing momentarily out the front window before returning to his usual patrol of the helicopter. Chris closed his eyes, dreading the remaining moments. HUNK did all of nothing.

"I get the mask," said Chris.

The men in the helicopter looked at each other, then back to Chris.

"HUNK, I get the mask," he repeated.

"How's that?" HUNK's muffled voice returned.

"I get it. Moments like this, you see us nervous as hell, but you… man, just looking at you is soothing."

"I can't imagine that's a shared sentiment," HUNK replied, motioning his head toward the front of the helicopter. "These masks are designed to instill an alien appearance upon its wearer. If you're a friend, it might be soothing. If you're a foe—"

"40 seconds," said the pilot. "Prepare for immediate dispatch."

The men collectively readied themselves, clutching to their weapons.

"Any advice?" Sardine asked.

"What's that?" White Eye responded.

"Any advice for how to calm the nerves?"

"Yeah." White Eye pulled out a cigar, placed it between his lips, and lit. "Find another line of work."

"Jesus, you're a cliche," said Leon, popping a piece of gum into his mouth. "I feel like we're in 'Predator' right now."

"20 seconds. Ready."

—-

"Ah, yee girls, you mangy quaint girls. You faint and fowlest of all yon girls. I bait ye and mate ye while demons await. I lay ye and pray ye that Heaven will take. Begone, begone, yon devils that lurk, and pray for the angels who pine their good work for the—"

A chorus of baritone singers join from the shadows.

"Weakness, the weakness, of women naive. For wolves, for wolves, they stalk and they eat. The women, the women, the women naive, and forsaken angels and cherubs they eat."

Within the barn, a group of cloaked men stood ceremoniously around a fire. At the center, a pike, and on the pike was a skinned, limb-less torso charring with each passing minute. In the shadows, their eyes dimly lit by the fire, sat a group of crying women, hogtied and whimpering.

The men undulated with a ceremonious vigor, honoring the skinned torso before them. The women cried; Lanie, a good friend of theirs, who shared conversations with them only the night before, piked up as an inanimate object of ceremony for devil men to "honor."

Of course, the tears of the women, so long in captivity, were more of rage than of fear.

—-

White Eye signaled for the men to push past the corner. Like clockwork, the men pushed forward past the stables, under the lamplight of a post just beside it. Their silenced rifles pointed forward, as if another part of each of their bodies. Green lights dimly glowed on their heads, covering their eyes like green-eyed demons. Chris led the march, with Leon, Sardine, Yarmulke, and White Eye just behind.

—-

"We are here today to celebrate men," said the tall man in the red robe. "To celebrate his divine dominance over women. God hath given us the gift of the dead, and with it, the gift of the woman as it was before law and order. With the end times comes the beginning, and with the beginning comes dominion."

A red-haired woman in the corner clenched all of her muscles. She had no hope of breaking free from her restraints—she simply held back the horrendous rage within her, as if not to explode from it altogether.

"Divine be the man, and divine be the Devil, who hath resurrected the long passed and devoted to its victory," said the red-robed man. "Woman and dead were designed for possession."

At the other corner of the room, also hidden in shadows, was the faint sight of a cage about 10 feet in height. Moans softly emerged from the pile in the corner, only a black lump from their sight.

"It is without hesitance that we take grasp of our birthright. The Devil hath spoken decades ago, and he hath spoke of prosperity for we few who design for the common man."

The moans grew louder. The cage rattled softly, a disturbance in the shadows. The cloaked men shook, not from fear, but rather soft laughter.

"Dost anyone dare besiege us? Dost anyone dare behold, with their godly eyes, our tremendous power? Dost—"

"Hey!" a woman's voice from the corner interrupted. "Asshole."

The cloaked men harmoniously glanced in her direction. The red-haired woman, restrained, free of her mouthpiece.

"I'm pretty sure I'll be next on the meat pike for this, but I just wanted to say your little Shakespeare soliloquy is really entertaining. Really, I mean it." Her voice was raspy and angry, a woman who has given up her hope of living and has instead relied on sarcasm as her life raft. Her voice, despite her words, was on the edge of tears. "I'd love to hear whatever else you've written. It would be soothing to know just how deluded and wrong my death will be. Relaxing, almost."

The red-cloaked man did not flinch.

"Bring her here."

Three of the other cloaked men approached her. The other women protested as best they could, even standing to protect her, but of course it was of no use in their state. They were tossed aside as two men grappled the red-haired woman by her ears and dragged her to the red-cloaked man, her screams upsetting the creatures in the cage.

They dropped her before the red-cloaked man's feet.

"What is your name?" he asked.

She looked up at him, her eyes bloodshot from many sleepless days. She looked down again, spitting at his feet, before looking back up at him. His faceless visage terrified her before, but no longer; not much ever would, even if she lived for 80 more years.

"Beatrice. Little prissy bitch," she replied, her mouth clenching with eons of hatred.

The red-cloaked man grabbed her by the throat and lifted her up with all of her weight.

"You are beautiful," he said. "You will taste just right."

He removed a curved dagger from his robe. The rest of the women riled and groaned in agony for their friend.

"I imagine your mother and father will curse God for what I have done to you," he said to her.

He slammed the blade into her stomach.

 **PLOCK!**

The back of the red-cloaked man's head exploded. She fell to the ground along with him, dust kicking into the air and into the fire, flickering it slightly. The rest of the robed men flinched.

 **PLOCK! PLOCK! PLOCKPLOCK! PLOCK!**

Flashes of light sporadically lit the room. The women screamed and huddled to the ground.

Spits of loud noise bounced across the room. The cloaked men's heads exploded one by one, each with more panic. As one of the men ran, his jaw was blown clean off, the force of it throttling his neck and thrusting him to the dirt. One man curdled over with the force of impact in his abdomen, quickly meeting a great force that destroyed the top of his head.

A sea of cloaked men lay strewn about on the barn floor. One solitary man hid behind a pillar, panting for dear life and holding a curved dagger by his side.

"Hey, darling," said Leon.

The man flinched, but that was about all he could do. Leon grasped his arm and thrust his fist into his throat, and his knee to his groin. He twisted the man around, throwing him off balance and onto his knees, grasping him in a headlock before gently sliding his knife into the back of his neck, twisting and churning violently. He removed his knife, allowing the man to fall to the dirt with his friends.

In the smoke and debris of the ruckus, several lasers searched around for any more targets. One by one, they quickly turned off. Chris, Sardine, Yarmulke, and White Eye swiftly entered the barn.

"Nobody move!" Chris screamed, his rifled pointed firmly before him.

"Dead ones! Dead ones!" Yarmulke shouted.

White Eye and Sardine regrouped with Yarmulke, and hurdled bullets into the moaning cage. Only silence remained afterwards.

Chris approached the women on the ground, still in a panic.

"Excuse me, excuse me," he said, throwing his rifle to his side, carried by its strap. "Don't panic, don't panic. We are here for you."

Leon wiped his knife off on one of the men's robe.

Chris began removing the gags from the women, who promptly let out screams of anger and sorrow. There wasn't much worry about noise; HUNK had taken care of the entire farm's lot while they had entered the barn.

"It's okay, it's okay."

White Eye walked into the light, wiping his mouth and gazing at the women with a pitiful look. Sardine leaned on a pillar, admiring the dead they had just put down. Yarmulke gazed out a window, presumably keeping an eye out for HUNK.

"We are here for you. We're here to extract you," said Chris, not yet removing their restraints. "But I need to know you all understand what I am telling you."

"Chris," said Leon.

Chris looked back and saw Leon leaning over Beatrice, now bleeding out from her stomach. Her eyes were open, but lifeless.

"Goddamnit," said Chris.

The barn door shot open. The mercenaries reflexively reacted, but noticed who it was before aiming their weapons. HUNK has entered the barn.

"60 seconds, on me," said HUNK.

"Whoa, whoa, what?" Sardine interjected. "What's 60 seconds?"

"We are leaving," said HUNK.

"You called the chopper in already? We have 10 more acres to cover," said Chris, standing up and facing him.

"No chopper," said HUNK. "Mission aborted. Leave the women. We are ghosts in half a minute."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, what the fuck?" Yarmulke said.

HUNK paused in the doorway, before stepping in slightly.

"Do not ask questions. Colonel's orders. Leave the women. We are moving on foot to the north—"

"No, no, no," said Chris, laughing, relaxed, as is his passive way of dishing out anger. "No, gentleman. Not leaving without these girls. Sorry."

"Then good luck," said HUNK.

HUNK turned around and hustled away from the farm.

Chris glanced over and Leon, who was still holding Beatrice. Their eyes met, a similar confusion between them.

As the men and women stood quietly in the barn, a siren in the near distance began to sound. It was almost deafening.

"Jesus," said Leon, allowing Beatrice to rest on his arm.

"What the—"

"Guys, I'm—I'm not feeling entirely incredible about this," said Yarmulke, looking out one of the barn windows.

"Oh, my god…" said a woman's voice.

Everyone looked at the center of the room. Leon looked down at Beatrice, whose eyes were now wide open. The color of her eyes were piercing white.

"Oh, my god. Oh, my god. Oh, my god. Oh, my god," she chanted, starting with a whisper and gaining volume with each repetition. "Oh, my god. Oh, my god. Oh, my god! Oh, my god! OH, MY GOD! OH, MY GOD! OH, MY GOD!"

Suddenly, in the distant woods, a thousand screams of men and women howled into the night. Agonizing. Painful. Devastating.

Tears fell down Beatrice's face as her jaw flexed with each scream.

"OH, MY GOD!"

—-

 **2 minutes before the sky falls...**


End file.
